she can do no wrong—no one would think the worse of her for having a wealthy protector. She does not mix in society, other than to dress her wealthy clientele, of course, and could never hope to marry into a good family.”
“Alas, I fear you are right. We are all too much governed by convention. I am sure we shall hear more in time,” Beatrice said. “The news may be slow in filtering through to the four villages, but it arrives in due course.”
“The four villages…” Olivia stared at her in bewilderment. “I am not sure what you mean?”
Beatrice laughed. “Oh, I am so used to that way of speaking of our neighbours. I mean the villages that lie to the north, south, east and west of Steepwood Abbey, of course: Abbot Quincey, which is really almost a small market town these days, Steep Abbot and Steep Ride…which is tiny and remote, and lies to the south of the Abbey—and our own.”
“Oh, yes, the Abbey. We passed by its outer walls on our journey here. Is life affected much by what goes on there?”
Once again, Beatrice laughed. “We have a wicked Marquis all our own,” she said. “The stories about him would take me all night to relate, but I will only say that I cannot vouch for any of them, since I have scarcely met him—except for the night he almost knocked me down as he rushed past on his horse, of course.”
“That was very rude of him,” Olivia said. “If he is so unpleasant I do not wonder that you do not care to know him.”
“No one cares to know the Marquis of Sywell—except perhaps the Earl of Yardley. I am not sure, but I think there is some story about them having belonged to the same wild set years ago, before either of them had come into their titles. It was a long time ago, of course. Before the old Earl, who was the seventh to bear the title, I believe, banished his son to France, lost the Abbey, which had been in his family for generations…since the middle of the sixteenth century…to the present owner, and then killed himself.”
“Indeed?” Olivia looked intrigued. “Why was the son banished? Oh, pray do tell me, Beatrice—was it because of a love affair?”
“Have you heard the story?”
Olivia shook her head. “No, but I should like to if it is romantic…to die for love is so—so…”
“Foolish,” Beatrice supplied dryly. “Perch on the window-seat, Olivia, and I will sit here on this stool. It is a long story and must be explained properly or you will become confused with all the different Earls and not know who I mean.”
Olivia nodded, her face alight with eagerness. For the first time since her arrival, she seemed truly to have forgotten her unfortunate situation. Beatrice took heart, determined to make her story as interesting and entertaining as she could for her sister’s sake.
“Well, the present Earl of Yardley, the eighth if I am right, was not born to inherit the title or the estate. His name when this story begins was Thomas Cleeve, and his family was no more than a minor branch of the Yardleys. It was then that he and his cousin (the last Earl before this one: I told you it was complicated!), some folk say, were both members of the rather loose set to which Lord George Ormiston belonged—he, to make things plain, is our wicked Marquis of today.”
“Yes, I see. He is now the Marquis of Sywell and he owns the Abbey,” Olivia said. “Please do go on.”
“Lucinda Beattie, the spinster sister of Matthew Beattie, who was our previous vicar and died in…oh, I think it was eleven years ago…told our mother that Thomas Cleeve was disappointed in love as a young man and went off to India to make his fortune. That part was undoubtedly true, for he returned a very wealthy man. I know that he married twice and returned a widower in 1790 with his four children (twin boys of fourteen years, Lady Sophia, who I dare say you will meet, and his elder son, Marcus). He built Jaffrey House on some land he bought from his cousin Edmund, then the seventh Earl of Yardley…Are you following me?”
“Yes, of course. What happened to the romantic Earl?” Olivia asked, impatient for Beatrice to begin his tale. “Why did he banish his son—and what was his son called?”
“His son was Rupert, Lord Angmering, and I believe he was very romantic,” Beatrice said with a smile. “He went off to do the Grand Tour, and met a young Frenchwoman, with whom he fell desperately in love. It was in the autumn of 1790, I understand, that he returned and informed his father he meant to marry her. When the Earl forbade it on pain of disinheritance, because she was a Catholic, he chose love—and was subsequently banished to France.”
Olivia was entranced, her eyes glowing. “What happened—did he marry his true love?”
“No one really knows for certain. Some of the older villagers say he would definitely have done so, for he was above all else a man of honour, others doubt it…but nothing can be proved, for the unfortunate Lord Angmering was killed in the bread riots in France…”
“Oh the poor man—to be thrown off by his father…” Olivia’s cheeks were flushed as the similarity to her own story struck her. “But you said his father killed himself?”
“As I have heard it told, the Earl was broken-hearted, and when the confirmation of his son’s death reached him in 1793, he went up to town, got terribly drunk and lost everything he owned to his friend the Marquis of Sywell at the card tables. Afterwards, he called for the Marquis’s duelling pistols and before anyone knew what he intended, shot himself—in front of the Marquis and his butler—the same one who remains in Sywell’s employ today.”
“It was sad end to his story, but it had a kind of poetic justice—do you not think so?” Olivia asked. “He blamed himself for the loss of his son and threw away all that had been precious to him…”
“It may be romantic to you,” Beatrice replied with a naughty look, “but it meant that the people of the four villages have had to put up with the wicked Marquis ever since. And according to local legend, there was a time when no woman was safe from him. He has been accused of all kinds of terrible things…including taking part in pagan rites, which may or may not have involved him and his friends in cavorting naked in the woods. Some people say the men wore animal masks on their heads and chased their…women, who were naturally not the kind you or I would ever choose to know.”
“No? Surely not? You are funning me!” Olivia laughed delightedly as her sister shook her head and assured her every word was true. “It sounds positively gothic—like one of those popular novels that has everyone laughing in public and terrified in private.”
“Dear Mrs Radcliffe.” Beatrice smiled. “The Mysteries of Udolpho was quite my favourite. How amusing her stories are to be sure. What you say is right, Olivia…but it is not quite as funny when you have to live near such a disreputable man.”
Olivia nodded. “No, I suppose it would be uncomfortable. Tell me, did the present Earl inherit his title from the one who banished his son and killed himself?”
“Yes. After the death of the Earl and his son Lord Angmering there was no one else left—or at least, if Rupert left an heir no one has heard of him to this very day.” Beatrice shook her head. “No, I am very sure there was no child. An exhaustive search was made at the time, I have no doubt, and no record of a marriage or a child was found. Had it not been so, the title could not legally have passed to Thomas Cleeve, and it was all done according to the laws of England, I am very sure.”
Olivia nodded, acknowledging the truth of this. “Besides, even if Lord Angmering had by some
